Welcome the Dawn
by cmaddict
Summary: Mac/Stella. Post-ep for 5.23 Yahrzeit, spoilers. He’s given up trying to understand, because he knows he’ll never be able to.


**A/N: **First I want to apologize for my Hebrew, in case anyone out there actually speaks it. I got it from an English-Hebrew dictionary, and I hope I got the grammar right. I only know like 2 words in Hebrew, which I picked up from a trip to Israel, and I wouldn't even begin to know how to spell those.

Second, I want to say thank you so much for the response to "Gold Can Stay." It was absolutely mind-blowing, and thank you all for your kind words.

This particular story came from a mixture of procrastination (I wrote this while I was supposed to be writing a paper) and the sheer emotionality of last week's episode. If you haven't seen it, stop right here, unless you don't mind some major spoilers for that episode. For those of you that did see it, I can't even begin to describe how much it affected me. I've spent a lot of time studying World War II after my dad piqued my curiosity, and after visiting the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem last year, I will never look at it the same way again. After I watched last week's episode, I could barely breathe through all the emotions, and I felt like this had to be written. I hope you enjoy it. As usual, please leave your comments, good or bad, at the end of it, and I'll try to get you a personal response.

**Not mine.

* * *

**

**ברוכים הבאים את עלות השחר**

**Barukh Haba ha-Shakhar**

**("Welcome the Dawn")**

"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten-seatbelt sign. Please make sure your trays are locked in place and your chairs are in the full upright position. We will be landing at JFK International Airport momentarily."

He presses the button to return his chair to its proper position and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand. It's late at night, nearly four o'clock in the morning New York time. He hasn't slept a wink since he left nearly twenty hours ago. Not for lack of trying. Every time he closes his eyes he sees those pictures, those faces. That tattoo. Those numbers, embedded in skin.

Branded. Like cattle.

He's given up trying to understand, because he knows he'll never be able to. Never be able to comprehend the hatred, the malevolence, directed so blindly toward a group of people who were just trying to exist. Never be able to wrap his mind around the sheer number of murders, committed over sixty years ago, but still fresh in the memory of so many.

Cruelty has always been a part of his life. It's his job. He deals with it on a daily basis.

But it's never taken on a life quite like this.

No amount of studying the Holocaust in books or in movies can fully prepare a person for dealing with it in real life. It just cannot be done. Until he saw the effects of such animalistic behavior for himself. And now he just can't get it out of his head.

Those pictures. That look on Braun's face.

"_We should have killed them all."_

Without warning, the plane dips down sharply, and he winces as his ears pop with the sudden change in pressure. On the one hand, it's good to be home. It's good to put this case behind him, to move on to the next rape or murder that comes across his desk. But on the other hand, he knows that he'll never fully be able to put it behind him. Now that he knows the truth about his father, about his family, he has too much of a personal connection.

And it's like a weight is constricting his chest, cutting off his supply of oxygen. Suffocated with the weight of his knowledge.

How has he never known what his father did? His father was a hero. A damn hero. And he deserved a hero's burial, a hero's death instead of slowly wasting away from cancer. He saved a man's life. And he's never known.

The plane jerks as the wheels slam into the tarmac, protesting the stop with a loud screech, shattering his thoughts into a million tiny pieces. Within minutes, they taxi to the gate, and a ding sounds through the cabin, signaling its occupants that it is time to deplane. He stands quickly, stretching his long, tired legs. He has no baggage, not even a carry-on, so he waits patiently as the few other passengers in front of him pull their bags from the overhead bins and trudge to the exit. He follows them slowly, his chest tightening even more.

Back to the real world. Back to bodies and victims and DNA and evidence.

Maybe there's one good thing about coming back to New York.

Seeing her again.

He'd called her before he left Hannah's house, asking if she could pick him up from the airport. She'd immediately said of course she would, and now he feels more excited about seeing her than ever before. She pulled him out of the depths of his misery once before. Perhaps she can do it again. She is his life-line, the person that kept him from sinking into oblivion eight years ago.

He feels a slight twinge of guilt at that thought, but there's no one he needs more at the moment. He wants to see her beautiful and understanding smile, her green eyes fill with sympathetic tears when he tells her of the look on Hannah's face. He needs to feel her arms around his shoulders, telling him that it's going to be all right. Somehow, she always knows what to say, and he wants to hear it.

Now.

The realization startles him. After fifteen years of friendship, the concept of needing her frightens him. He's never needed anyone like that before. And he can't place a finger on when that changed. Perhaps after she was nearly killed by Frankie, or when her apartment burned to the ground.

Whatever the case may be, he needs her.

JFK at four o'clock in the morning is a relatively quiet place compared to its usual hustle and bustle as one of the main entry points into the United States. His eyes scan the massive baggage claim area for a glimpse of curly, caramel-colored hair or a bright green eye. A group of about twenty young people from out of state stands between him and the exit, chatting excitedly about seeing "Wicked" on Broadway or visiting Yankee Stadium.

Then, like Moses at the Red Sea, the crowd parts, and he spots her.

She leans against the wall next to the exit, arms folded across her flat abdomen, ankles crossed so that she stands on one foot. Her tanned face is relaxed as her eyes peer through the crowd. Even at four o'clock in the morning, she is beautiful, and he can't figure out why he never noticed before.

Her hazel-green eyes meet his. That beautiful smile splits her face, and he can't help but return it.

Without another thought, he crosses the room in ten long strides, ignoring the surprised look on her face as he wraps his arms tightly around her thin frame. A little bit of the weight falls from his chest when she returns his embrace. He sighs into her hair, relishing the feel of holding her once again.

Even her presence makes him feel better.

"Nice to see you too, Mac," she says with laughter in her voice as she pulls back to look at him.

Her eyes twinkle at him, and despite his exhaustion, he smiles. "Good to be home, Stella." For once, it's not a lie.

"You got a bag?" she asks, untangling herself from him.

He shakes his head. "Didn't need one."

One of her eyebrows rises slightly, but she remains silent. Somehow she knows that when he's ready, he'll talk. It's one of the things he's always appreciated about her. She'll check up on him, but in no way will she force him to talk until he needs to.

"You ready to go?" Her voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he nods. She smiles again and leads him out into the early morning air.

It's late April now, and the atmosphere smells of a disgusting mixture of rain and car exhaust. A cool breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he takes a deep breath, ignoring the constricting in his chest, inhaling the smells of the city. Clouds cover the moon, hiding it behind their thick black essence. The air is heavy with moisture, pressing down on him, pushing him further into the abyss.

"You okay?" Stella's voice breaks into his reverie, and he looks down to see her curious stare.

Unable to say anything, he nods, just once. Her brow furrows, and he knows she doesn't believe him. But she doesn't reply, and they continue walking to her car. He doesn't bother to fight her for the keys; he knows she'd fight him tooth and nail over it. Frankly, he doesn't want to drive. He's too absorbed in his thoughts to pay attention to the road. Thoughts of gas chambers and bullets, of Lugers and swastikas, of eighty-pound men that had to be carried out of the barracks because they were too weak to walk.

The ride to his apartment is silent, and at four o'clock in the morning, it goes by quickly. There is little to no traffic on the road – surprising in the city famous for never sleeping. He stares out the window at the familiar sights – the Flat Iron Building, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building. They tower high above the city, their lights brighter than hundreds of stars.

What would it be like if they disappeared?

He knows life is brief. He knows that it can vanish in a moment. September 11th taught him that. Beirut in 1983 taught him that. But what would it be like if everything he knew, everything he ever cared about, everything he ever _loved_ vanished, snatched away by cruel and evil men? He's experienced that before, when Claire died. It took him years to pick up the pieces and move on. And he can't imagine going through that again. He can't imagine losing everything.

But they did. Women like Hannah lost everything. Their homes, their possessions, their family. Their dignity. Their humanity.

"_We should have killed them all."_

Suddenly he feels them come to a stop, and he looks up to see the familiar outline of his apartment building against the black night sky. He glances over at Stella, who looks at him with a gentle smile on her face. "Here we are," she says softly.

His gaze travels to the building, and suddenly he doesn't want to leave.

"Mac?" When he looks at her again, her brow is furrowed curiously, and her expression is filled with concern.

"You wanna come up?" It comes out before he can stop it, and her eyebrows go up even farther. _Where did that come from?_ he thinks.

"Are you sure? It's late, and you're tired…"

"I'm sure. I've got coffee."

She considers his request for a moment, her lips forming a thin and thoughtful line. Finally she gives him a smile and nods, her curls tumbling over her shoulders as she pushes open the driver's side door.

As they ride the elevator to his floor, he can't help looking at her, watching her closely. She leans against the back wall of the elevator, quietly watching the numbers above the door illuminate one by one. She's been through so much in the past few years. And yet, through it all, she remains strong.

Her strength puzzles him. Not once has he seen her break down, not even when she sat in a hospital bed, broken and bruised by a man she thought she loved. Not even when she stood in the blackened skeleton of her apartment. Not even when she told him she might've contracted the deadly HIV virus. She's the most stalwart person he knows, never bending, never breaking, never wavering.

Finally, the elevator dings loudly, signaling their arrival to his floor. He gets off first and digs his key out of his pocket as they walk to his door. Wordlessly, he fits the key into the lock and turns it, the soft click echoing through the quiet hallway.

He pushes the door open and lets her step in first, ever the gentleman. "Where's that coffee you were talking about?" she asks with a smile as he flips on the light to the living room.

He returns her smile, knowing how much she loves her caffeine. "In the kitchen."

"I'll get it started for you. Irish coffee?"

"Don't you think it's a little late for whiskey?"

She narrows her eyes at him, and he bites back a smirk at the playful glint in her eyes. "You're not a real Irishman, are you?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Just coffee, thanks."

With another grin, she crosses the apartment into his kitchen and immediately pulls the filters from the cabinet above her. She's been there so many times she knows exactly where everything is, down to the special blend he keeps in the back corner of the pantry. His eyes follow her as she moves around the kitchen, comfortable with a display of domesticity he doesn't often see from her.

She presses a button on the coffee maker, and it growls at her briefly before acquiescing to her demand. Satisfied that it is doing what it is supposed to, she turns around and leans against the counter, sizing him up with those eyes that know him so well. "You kinda disappeared on us there for a little while," she says without a hint of judgment or accusation in her voice.

"I know," he replies. He leans against the bar across from her and folds his arms across his chest.

"You know you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"I know." Silence envelops them for a moment as they stare at each other, holding each other's gaze. He trusts her implicitly, and she knows it. "I went to see Hannah Schlitzler."

The simple confession makes her eyes widen and her brows rise in surprise. But she says nothing, waiting patiently for him to continue.

"I thought she should have what was hers. Her family's."

Stella nods once, her curls spilling over her shoulders. "I agree completely."

He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest constrict again. For a while, he'd forgotten about it, but now that he's telling her, that pain rises from the depths of his soul. "You know, my father fought in World War II. With the Sixth Armored Division. He was part of the group that liberated Buchenwald."

She grimaces. "I read about that camp. Eight hundred thousand killed within a year and a half."

Mac nods before he continues. "He mentioned it once when I was growing up, but he didn't say much about it. And, uh, I ran across a video from one of the Holocaust survivors while we were investigating the case."

"What did it say?"

He sighs again, running a hand through his short dark hair. "My dad… he… He picked up one of the prisoners and carried him out of the camp." He watches as her eyes slowly fill with tears. "He gave this guy a little bit of food and water, treated him like he was human instead of the skeleton he looked like. This man couldn't have been more than eighty pounds at the time, and he carried him out. And even now, sixty years later, this guy remembers my dad."

She takes two strides toward him and wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him into her body. He clings to her, as if she's the only thing keeping him from insanity, breathing in the scent that is uniquely hers. It's the second time tonight that she's been pressed against him like this, and it's a feeling he can easily get used to. "I can't help but think," he whispers into her hair, "that maybe this guy knew my dad better than I did. He saw a completely different side of him than I ever could, and my dad never even told me about it. And… it's a lot to live up to."

She pulls back and places her hands on his face, looking at him directly in the eyes. "Your dad was a hero, Mac," she says quietly. "Like father, like son."

"What do you mean?"

"Mac, after sixty years, Esther Schlitzler finally got justice yesterday. Because of you. Flack is alive today, because of you. You fought for your country in Beirut and saved hundreds of lives. And don't even think about making me name off all the people you've saved since you've been at the lab." She pats his face with one hand. "You're a hero, Mac. Just like your dad. I never met him, but I think I see a little bit of him in you. You care about people, what's inside of them instead of how they look on the outside. You risk your neck to save their lives, not because they necessarily deserve saving, but because you care about them."

He frowns just a little, meditating on her words. He knows she's right, because she's always right, but it's something he's never thought of.

"I think you do know that side of him," she continues, "because you live it out every single day. And believe me, you more than live up to his example." She brushes her hand across his jaw, leaving tingles in its wake. "He'd be damn proud of you, Mac."

The coffeemaker beeps at them, jolting them out of the moment, and she turns around to check something. He watches her carefully as she grabs two mugs from the cabinet nearby, studying her. He's never thought of it like that. "How do you do it?" he asks.

"What?"

"Always know the right thing to say to make me feel better."

She grins at him, that big, beautiful grin he's grown to love. "I guess I just have a gift when it comes to you."

He returns her grin, feeling the constriction in his chest loosen just a little. "I guess you do."

Suddenly he's struck by a thought, and his chest tightens again.

What would it be like if she disappeared?

Hannah Schlitzler never saw her sister's murder coming. None of the victims of the Holocaust saw their demise coming. They were content to live their lives, never knowing that within five years, six million of them would not be coming back.

What would he do if Stella were taken from him?

For so many years, she'd been his rock, his solid place. His confidant, his sounding board. The woman that picked up the shattered pieces of his heart and slowly put them back together again. She's his best friend, his second-in-command.

He doesn't want to just be content with living his life anymore. He wants to make the most of what little time there is on the earth. Life is but a vapor, here today and gone the next, whether it is stolen from a man or lost in a slow death. He wants something different.

"_We should have killed them all."_

He wants _her_. He needs _her_.

He doesn't know when or how his feelings for her changed, but he knows he has to do something about it.

She's standing with her back to him, pouring the coffee into the cups, and he steps up behind her until he pins her between his body and the couch. He can hear her breath catch in her throat, and her hands still. "Mac?" she asks, her voice betraying her sudden nervousness.

"Hmm?" he hums softly. The thin tendon of her neck distracts him, and he lowers his lips to it, softly brushing against it.

"What are you doing?" Her voice sounds forced, like she's struggling for words.

"Taking a chance." He grasps her shoulders and spins her around so that she's facing him. Her green eyes are filled with trepidation, and he smiles softly at her. "Stella, if there's one thing that this case taught me, it's that nothing lasts as long as we think it will. Esther and her husband never thought that when they climbed into the back of that truck that it would be their last moments together." He takes a breath, noticing that the constriction is slowly easing. So he plunges on. "Life is short, too short, and we should make the most of our time together."

A hint of a smirk plays at the corners of her mouth, but the fear stays in her eyes. "Didn't we talk about this once before?"

He smiles and brushes a stray curl from her face. "I was serious then, and I'm serious now. And I'm taking a step. With you."

"You're sure."

His smile is soft and gentle. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

Without another word, he lowers his lips to hers, softly touching each corner of her mouth. She moans quietly, arching into him. One of his hands steals around her thin waist and the other slides along her neck before tangling itself in her silken curls. She makes a little pleading sound as he pulls back, but he wants to see her. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted, and there can be no mistake.

She wants this as much as he does.

His hold on his restraint snaps, and he crushes his lips to hers in a bruising kiss. Her hands wrap around his neck, pulling him down to her, and he tightens his hold on her waist. He nips softly at her bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, and she moans again, sending fire shooting through his veins. He can't for the life of him figure out why it had to take them this long to do this, not when it feels so right, so good. Then it's his turn to moan as her fingers slide through his hair, scraping lightly against his scalp. She takes advantage of his moan and deepens the kiss, and the knowledge that she wants this too sends thrills through his spine.

Finally the need for oxygen becomes too much, and they reluctantly pull apart. Her face is flushed and her lips are swollen, but when she opens her eyes, they're shining. She smiles softly at him, and he thinks that she's never looked so beautiful.

"Wow," she whispers, and he chuckles.

"Yeah. Me too."

She reaches up and presses another soft kiss to his lips. "I guess this changes things," she murmurs against his lips.

He nods as he pulls back again. "Is that okay?"

"Mmm," she hums softly as she returns his nod. "More than okay."

A grin spreads across his face. "Good." He kisses her again tenderly and pulls away one more time. "Coffee's ready."

She laughs and steps away from him. "Right. That's what I was doing before you distracted me."

"I'm good at that."

"It's your fault if it's cold."

He smirks at her and slides his hand through her hair, heart racing when her eyes flutter closed. "I'll keep you warm."

She laughs again and pulls out of his arms. "I bet you will."

As she gets the coffee ready, he notices that it's gotten lighter outside his window. Curious, he walks over to it and surveys the city outside. The clouds have long since disappeared, and to the east, the sun slowly rises above the horizon, casting shades of purple and red and pink across the blue sky. It's a beautiful April dawn, and he takes a deep breath.

Suddenly he notices that the tightness is gone. It doesn't hurt to breathe anymore.

"Hey."

He turns to see Stella standing next to him, two cups of steaming coffee in her hands.

"You okay?"

It's the dawn of a new day. A new intimacy. A new form of an old life. A new hope and a new love. And this time when she asks that question, he's able to answer. "I am now," he whispers as he gathers her into his arms.


End file.
